


the stronger pull

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: At the start of the season, Dele gathers the courage to ask Pochettino to drop the last name on his shirt.





	

At this time of day, Hotspur way slumbered. 

Even in late summer, the English mornings cool enough for dew to coat the expanse of grass in silver, the sky pink as a slapped cheek before it streaked to blue. 

Dele sat in his car, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, knuckles going from fawn to beige. The frantic rapping of Stormzy on the beats would have normally cheered him, or at least soothed, but Stormzy hadn’t been doing it for a while. Not since well... June to be honest. 

Ibiza, late July

“You said your gaffer is easy to talk to, right?” Harry Hickford had asked, pushing his hair back from his face, his eyes squinting at Dele in the strong sun. It had been two weeks ago, one of those days that only Ibiza could do, when the sun stuck around until about eight in the evening, its rays as strong as it were at four in the afternoon.

“Yeah,” Dele raised his hand and pressed it against his forehead, shielding his eyes like a visor. He’d left his shades on the table just a few metres away, sitting at the edge of the pool, his feet wagging to and fro in the warm, azure waters of the pool, his bum warmed by the sunbaked concrete. “But,” he recoiled, temper sizzling at the edge of his words. “I shouldn’t have to.”

Harry shrugged, shoulders tanned and freckled under the sun. The look he sent Dele warm and sympathetic, which only annoyed him more. Only for him to feel guilty for being annoyed for sniping at Harry because Harry had been there with him from the beginning, their friendship expanding his world in many ways from just being academy lads at MK. 

“There are a lot of things you shouldn’t have had to do, to be fair,” Harry’s voice partially obscured as he chewed on the cuticle of his thumb, his eyes shifting to the left as if deep in thought. “But that hasn’t stopped you before.”

Restless, Dele pushed himself off the wall and into the pool, sinking into the blue depths, with that muffled watery sound one grew accustomed to, before breaking the surface shaking the water from his eyes. Harry still at the edge of the pool, frowning at his thumb, shiny with spit and blood.

***

Coming back to the club after their summer break felt like returning to school after holidays.

Getting caught up with the lads you knew from the summer before and getting the lowdown on the new faces and names. All this as well as the newer academy talents breaking through, like... Harry Winks. 

“Winksy!” Dele unable to help his grin as he saw his friend. Winksy had the face of a contestant joining a boy band, with slashing dark eyebrows, sparkling brown eyes and a heavy sprinkling of freckles that took him from looking all of nineteen to fifteen years of age. Dele threw an arm around Winks as they ambled towards the buildings.

“Delboy, mate,” Winksy grinned, turning his face towards Dele’s, “How were your hols?”

Dele felt the edges of his smile wilt, his mood darken, but it wasn’t Winksy’s fault. “I can’t complain, not really. Did you go anywhere nice?”

Winksy shook his head, “I stayed and bulked up, worked on my fitness and conditioning. Ugh.”

Dele stopped, hand on Winksy’s shoulder as he took in his friend. Yeah, Winksy had filled out some, you could see it in his shoulders, and even how he moved. Winksy wanted to get on the first team, his desire palpable, almost desperate and it made Dele feel a bit... ashamed about what he wanted. Winksy wanted what he had, a place in Pochettino’s plans for the starting XI for the new season, as well as Champions’ League matches at Wembley. 

Surely, when Dele thought about it, what he wanted didn’t seem as desperate as Winks’ desires. 

But when he got his kit from the kitman for their first session with his name typed across the package in neat lettering, his fingers trembled as he grabbed at his kit, his teeth clenched, biting down on a scream. 

His practice had been shocking. His feet didn’t feel like his, his limbs awkward gangly, and refusing to take direction, as if he’d woken up in a new body. From the corner of his eye, he saw Pochettino and his brain trust, their heads close together as they whispered amongst them, and Dele felt his elbows drawing towards his ears. 

Training -a sanctuary and joy where time normally flew by- now thick and slow as honey. Pochettino refused to have clocks around the training ground, the only mark of time on the wrists of himself and his coaches, and for all of his jocularity, you’d never think of asking him for the time while training. 

“Hey,” that was Eric, his arm around his shoulder as they walked off the field towards the canteen for the break. “Are you okay?” Eric’s eyes a sharp, piercing blue in his direction. 

“Holiday rust, and everything, you know,” Dele rolled his shoulders in a shrug. 

“Oh?” Eric raised a blonde brow, scepticism writ large across his features. 

In answer, Dele tucked his face into the space between Eric’s neck and shoulder, feeling his eyes burn and his nose twitch as Eric drew him close, the questions dropped, his acceptance unconditional.  
That’s when Dele knew, this feeling wasn’t going to go away. 

Dele blinked the memories away, releasing his fingers from the steering wheel. He killed the engine, the silence rolling in with the weight and presence of thunder. The car park still clear of cars, because Dele had rocked up early. 

The hours Pochettino spent at Spurs were already the stuff of legend. Early enough before the sun established itself in the sky, and hung around late enough, when Dele would have already found himself in bed, waiting on himself to drift off to sleep. 

Hotspur way in the morning held an odd sort of quiet in the way that buildings and their surroundings that entertained a lot of people did frozen with inactivity, waiting on its inhabitants to fill the buildings and make them live and breathe. With his lanyard to hand, Dele swiped his way in, found himself being checked and waved on by security guards. 

Slipping into the locker room, he quickly changed into his bottoms (they only had his number), and when it came to his top (first team, no 20). His first top didn’t have his name and although he knew it didn’t, his heart slowed down to its normal pace when he checked to make sure. 

Squaring his shoulders, Dele slipped off his watch and slid into his trainers. Worrying his lower lip, Dele pushed away from his locker and went to find his coach.

***

_Se fue_

_Pero debes aceptar felici-_

Pochettino shook his head, wagged his finger in Toni’s direction. _Se fue, nosotros re-_

Pochettino and his brain trust already on the field, Toni, Jesús and Miki already spacing the cones, and giving a considering eye on the squares marked out before them. Their Spanish machine gun quick between them, Dele already lost at even trying to translate. 

Although the press were muckraking in linking Dele to clubs away as his reason for learning Spanish, it wasn’t the reason why Dele decided to learn the language. There had been other, pressing, more compelling reasons. 

It might have been the fact that every one of his teammates - outside of the English lads- knew a second language. 

Even Ben Davies spoke Welsh, FFS. 

Dele, competitive to the end, decided that he wanted a second language too, but that still didn’t push him to do anything about it. 

Danny started learning Spanish in order to be closer to Pochettino, which made everyone roll their eyes as in, _Oh, of course_ , because Danny and Pochettino’s relationship was another stuff of legend. Seeing Pochettino’s eyes light up at hearing Danny speaking the language had been nice, but not enough to move Dele in that direction. 

If the press had pushed, he’d have said it helped in understanding what the Spanish players were saying in the teams that they played against in the Premier League, but really, Pochettino had been the reason why, with Coco an unwitting catalyst. 

“They’re talking about you,” Coco said once, back when he’d been active in the team, inclining his head in Pochettino and his brain trust’s direction. They’d been loitering on the training ground, shooting a ball between each other, using various flicks and tricks. The first one to lose the ball had to buy the other player a meal. 

“Oh, right?”

“Nothing bad,” Coco’s dimples pierced his cheeks, his grin broad. “But he’s going over it with Jesús to make sure that he doesn’t kill you?”

Dele raised his eyebrows in surprise, “What are they saying?”

“He likes your uhh- edge - but he doesn’t want it to -- _costar_? Cost you.”

 _Say no more, fam_

Duolingo and Babel downloaded on the phone with the quickness, and he plugged through it as best as he could, although conjugations made him want to throw the phone across the room half of the time. 

Never mind that Dele had been pants at languages at school back in the day. His time with Spurs had shown him to take advantage of everything and anything for an advantage, languages being one of them.

Learning a language on Duolingo paled in comparison to hearing the language in the wild. The words shapeshifted, staccato and musical as they zinged and bounced to and fro amongst each other like frantic footballs. In addition to that, Pochettino gesticulating and laughing, his beard salt and pepper, the shock of dark hair mostly obscured by his navy beanie with the white cockerel silhouette. 

“Trouble,” Pochettino greeted with a smile, teeth kitten small, laugh lines stamped at the corner of his eyes. Dele thought that he’d kept a straight face, but realised that he hadn’t, as the smile dimmed and disappeared from Pochettino’s own. 

“Dele,” Pochettino’s voice gruff, but not unkind, as he closed the distance between them, his hands sliding into the pockets of his light windbreaker. “What’s wrong?”

Dele tried to do his default smirk but found his eyes looking down and away, seeing the training fields, the orange coloured cones on the grass. “Erm,” Dele lifted his gaze to Pochettino, and half mortified to see that Pochettino’s features a blur. Not risking a blink, no matter how his eyes burned, Dele kept them wide open. At least his voice didn’t hitch and waver when he asked, “Can I have a word?”

***

Dele had been to Pochettino’s office before. Back when his temperament threatened to overshadow his promise when he’d gotten a retrospective three-match ban in the business end of the season, as well as other things. Pochettino’s desk scrupulously clean, the clear, heavy glass on top of it streak free. To the side, folders with the Spurs’ logo and their names typed out. A container with pens and pencils to one side.

His desk all imposing when he chose to sit behind it, but not now. 

Both of them sat on chairs, Dele with a box of tissues balancing on his knees, Pochettino slipping it to him as soon as he sat down, staring at the sleek floor. 

Like a priest, Pochettino offered the promise of forgiveness, a bit of advice and crucially- no judgement - especially when Dele spelt out his reasons for being there. 

“I don’t want the name ‘Alli’ on the back of my shirt,” Dele said finally when his temper and cheeks cooled, and his eyes were clear. “Not anymore, going forward.”

Pochettino threaded his fingers together, balanced his hands on his knees. “Football,” he started, but not unkindly, “is a business, Dele. Shirts would have already been bought, sold, and for publicity everything already sent out and ready for this season. It’s-” Pochettino pulled a face, “it’s football, no?”

Dele nodded, shredding the tissue between his fingers, knowing that Pochettino would have had to say that, because it was his _job_ and tried to rack up an answer beyond, “I know.”

Only for silence to creep in after that, as Pochettino waited for him to compose himself, for Dele to convince _him_ why this course of action made sense. Only for Dele to stammer out, “ I’m sorry, I-”

“How long.”

“Sorry?”

“How long have you been thinking about it?”

The tissue now the most important thing in Dele’s fingers, as he remembered near the end of last season.

***

The club had tapped him to do the behind the scenes shoot of the new kit.

Armed with a camera that probably cost more than his weekly wage, Dele grabbed at the chance, and stomped around the grounds, deeply content. It had been before Leicester, before The Battle At Stamford Bridge, before West Brom and the catastrophe of the Euros. 

Europa League defeat to Dortmund at both legs of the tie a faint memory, the title still in their sights then. At that time, Dele’s spirits were buoyant. The club’s social media noted his _ease_ in front of the camera, with and without Eric, and so had asked him to be their roaming reporter on top of everything else. 

Sure, Dele had smirked, why not?

Trying on new kits were always fun no matter the club’s position on the football pyramid. 

The anticipation of the new designs, or if not total anticipation, a keen interest. Everything about the process still novel, with the phalanx of cameras and bodies, the heat of the lights, the hum of the fans. The players shucking and pulling on their new shirts, doing the walk-ups and hamming it up for their supporters. 

Dele didn’t even mind the attentions of the makeup artist clad in her Adidas floral shell suit, and he didn’t like the makeup process much. She finally got around to dusting his face with powder, after rummaging through her makeup kit and placing small samples of makeup against his face, frowning at his complexion, before nodding with satisfaction at a powder the colour of custard. 

Then finishing his face by spraying it with - 

“Fixative,” she explained.

“Like a painting?”

The makeup artist tucked her fingers under his chin, as she directed him to close his eyes. Dele did, feeling the mist landing on his face like a cool, light drizzle of rain. “Yeah, luv,” she’d answered, breath smelling strongly of mints with a faint smokiness, “Like, a painting.”

***

“Harry,” Dele asked, camera in Harry’s face, asking him a question designed to make him stumble and stammer. “Do you love me?”

Harry, as patient as the day was long, his temperament as level as a playing field smiled. The affection in Harry’s answer palpable enough to make him soften. “Yes, Dele, I do.”

Tommy Carroll trying on his new togs, their socks navy now instead of the white of the season before. “Gosh, Dele,” he half complained, tugging at his socks. “That’s not my best side.”

Ben shooting him a look. 

Much later, Dele asked Eric the same question he had asked Harry. 

“I don’t know,” Eric drawled, index finger tapping against his lips as if deep in thought, his eyes lit with mischief. “I’ll have to think about it. Just to get this straight, as in me, Eric and you, Dele, right?”

“You’re a wind up,” Dele huffed, “do you love the kits, then?”

“Oh yeah,” Eric kissed the tips of his fingers as if complimenting a meal. “Beautiful.”

Warmed by the exertions of the day, Dele had taken off his new top, fingers dancing and smoothing out the wrinkles as he looked at his name and then the number. 

He stroked his shirt again, feeling the chill stealing through him, chasing the warm feelings of the day away. The realisation as sharp and breathtaking as an elbow to the gut.

**ALLI**

**20**

***

“The name didn’t fit,” Dele explained now. “It doesn’t fit. Like, I see how H and Eric wear their surnames and they’re okay with it. And that’s fine. They have a connection to what it means-”

Harry and his parents and his brother, Eric and his clutch of siblings and parents. Dele squeezed the remnants of his tissue in his fist. 

“I don’t,” Dele finished, raising his eyes to his manager now, “not with mine. Not with others claiming me. I don’t care for it.”

He heard Pochettino’s sharp inhale of breath, heard the faint increase in noise in the building, instinctively knowing that other players and people were beginning to arrive, the day due to kickstart and he was encroaching on Pochettino’s time. 

“Leave it with me, we’ll speak later.”

“Okay,” Dele got to his feet, “I’ll see you at training, then.”

Pochettino shook his head. “No, you won’t. I want you to have some time off to think about this, to be sure about your objective. Come back at six in the evening, and we’ll speak then.”

“But-” Dele shook his head, at a loss for words. “I’m -”

“Not here,” Pochettino pushed himself to his feet. “You enjoy the day off. We’ll speak later.”

***

Pochettino for all the humble, easy going facade he showed to the world, could be a stubborn one. His manner hard and unmoving, and him brooking no opposition once he made his position clear.

Dele didn’t push his luck because you crossed Pochettino at your peril. So he changed into his street clothes, grabbed his keys and left. 

Found himself at odds, and everyone he knew at work or away. It made no sense spending money on stuff that he already had, and London, for all its cramped patchwork of neighbourhoods, still felt large enough for him to rattle around. 

So, Dele drove, supposedly on his way to Brighton, but found himself on the M1 to Milton Keynes. With the move to London, and just the general distance that came from a life and career change, Milton Keynes seemed smaller, a lot duller. But it was home, like the academy and his old coach, Karl Robinson. 

The afternoon’s training ended, and Karl on the field, stacking cones one on top of the other because MK Dons wasn’t like Tottenham Hotspur when you had other people doing the grunt work of gathering field equipment together. 

It didn’t occur to Dele to not help, although he belatedly realised his Zanotti lace-ups weren’t necessarily the best footwear on a field that wasn’t carpet ready as Spurs’. His jeans weren't the best choice either, the corners of the cones snagging on strategic rips, and grazing his bare kneecaps.

“You really don’t have to do that, lad,” Karl said later, as they stacked the cones and practice nets by the shed, as they waited for the janitor to open up. With Dele’s help, Karl had finished a few minutes earlier than expected, so they loitered outside not bothering to call the janitor to hurry up. 

The day still warm under a bright sun, and Dele sweating in his shirt, his light jacket off and to the side. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dele asked peevishly. “You needed help, and I wasn’t going to just let you do it alone, was I?”

Karl ran his hand through his hair, his ginger locks unruly and tousled. After the dizzying heights of the Championship, MK Dons were back into League One, and the complex hadn’t changed, which comforted Dele in a way because in the space of time he’d been away, he felt as if he’d changed plenty. 

“I thank you for it,” Karl inclined his head in Dele’s direction. “But if I remember correctly, you have training today.”

Dele looked away. 

“Dele.”

“The gaffer gave me the day off.”

The disappointment in Karl’s voice so sharp, Dele quickly piped up. “It’s not what you think.”

“ _Dele_. It better not be, you’ve been taught better than that-”

“It’s _not_.” 

Karl sighed, lifting his hand to wave to the groundsman now jogging down the lane towards them, keys in hand. “Let’s get these in, and you’ll tell me what it is, then.”

***

“Wow,” Karl finished, rubbing his face with his hands, his Liverpool accent with its tight vowels and lilt distinct in a sea of southern accents. “I... wow.”

Dele wrapped his hands around a mug of tea, his fingers warm against the ceramic mug. 

Karl had hustled him into his office and cleared a space at his desk for them to have a cup of tea. 

At this time of day, there weren’t many people around in terms of the first team, and the academy students were away at school. Normally, he would have stopped by the offices, say hi, made himself available, but he felt tender, a bit delicate. 

Karl, being Karl, and on top of that, English, made tea with great dispatch, sweetened with sugar and milk from the little fridge in the office (the wee fridge he called it) and served with rich tea biscuits. 

“I know, I know, your macros and all tha’,” Karl said, offering him biscuits and tea with mismatched crockery. “Eat and drink what you can, and if you can’t, it’s fine.”

“Do you think I’m being daft?”

“No,” Karl shook his head, daintily breaking his biscuits, the action incongruous with his build. Karl was a stocky man, with a shock of ginger hair, and eyes in a permanent squint like a sailor at sea. “I think you’re growing up, trying on things for size, seeing what suits and what doesn’t. I think...you have a right.”

“But.” Dele prompted, because there was always a but. 

“It won’t stop the unauthorised stories coming out, the ones that you don’t like if that’s what you’re thinking.”

 _Don’t you think I know?_ Dele wanted to rage, but that’s why he’d come here, to get some tea and sympathy with a lot of Northern straight talking that he’d expected from Karl. 

“Bu’,” Karl finished, as he wagged his finger in Dele’s direction. “You’ve made up your mind and you won’t budge. Ah, lad, if I could take this problem away from you, I would.”

Dele didn’t sip at his tea, because it was too milky for one, but Karl hadn’t offered him tea and biscuits because he’d been hungry. He offered tea and biscuits as routine, to give a focus for Dele’s jitters. 

“It’s going to cost the club money,” Dele broke his biscuit, looked at the crumbs on the plate. “They've already sent press releases out with names and numbers, people have bought new kits with the name on it and -” he rubbed at his nose. “- they might give me pushback.”

“What does Pochettino say?”

“He told me to leave it with him, to come back later,” Dele nibbled at the biscuit. Crunchy, with a milky sweet taste. “He wants me to be sure.”

“Aren't you?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Pochettino is going to ask you again, Dele,” Karl sipped at his tea thoughtfully. “And you’re going to need to give him a good answer. If he likes it, he’ll help to marshall the club behind you, for everything to fall in line. Give him a good one.”

***

Normally, Dele tended to push the constraints of time. If he had to be at training for nine, he’d show up at ten minutes to, whilst everyone else came at half eight. It’s not like he _wanted_ to be late, but things tended to disappear at the last minute. Like... the keys to his car, or his phone going walkabout at night and ending up on his sofa under the cushions instead of his bedside table.

Today, he was back at half five. Killing the engine in the carpark, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly, knuckles standing out in sharp relief. After tea and sympathy with Karl, he’d driven home and showered, changed and returned. 

By five o’ clock, the day’s training already finished. Double sessions to boot, the first few days heavy with training but light on the hours. The mid-August evening still bright, the sun in the sky. 

_“You’re thinking about dropping your surname?” Eric turned to him, his head resting against his headrest, the clouds covering the sky outside their window. Dele had put it out there months ago, back on one of their many flights to and from their Europa League matches. “One word? Scrabble-style? South American Like... Neymar?”_

_“I don’t know,” Dele answered, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Forget that I asked.”_

_“You wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean-”_

_Dele grabbed at his earphones and plopped them on, a signal that he was done with this conversation. D.O.N. E. D.U.N. Or however you wanted to spell it. Feeling his cheeks heat, he looked down and away._

Dele uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel, fumbled with his fob that locked the car remotely. There was nothing to do but to go back into Hotspur way, and wait on Pochettino, hear what he had to say. 

“Dele!” 

The familiar voices chorusing his name dragged him out of his wool-gathering. The owners Eric and Harry, clad in their civvies and ready to go. 

“We thought we’d missed _someone_ in training today,” Harry greeted in his gentle, careful way. “Training without nutmegs. A novelty, I must say.”

“H,” Dele stepped forward to greet him with one of their florid handshakes. Harry was a fiend and up for it, the more complicated, the more he liked it. 

“You’re late,” Eric grinned as they exchanged a simpler handshake. More a slide of palms and a wiggle of fingers at the end more than anything. “Your time keeping is shocking, I must say.”

“Yeah,” Dele shrugged, “you know how it goes.”

“Pochettino will demand a sick note, I think.” Harry teased.

“Why are you guys here so late, anyway?” Dele slipped his hands into his pockets. 

“Practising,” Eric rolled his shoulders under a top that had the volume of a shroud. The Grim Reaper would have been proud of the voluminous black hoodie, Dele thought. Eric’s head stuck out, looking like a fluffy chick with his shock of golden hair and pale blue eyes. “And you, Dele? Why are you here?”

“I need to see Poch.”

“Oh? Have you been poorly?” Eric’s face a picture of concern as he closed the space between them, aiming his palm at Dele’s forehead, but somehow smooshed his nose and cheek instead. 

“Hey, easy, Florence Nightingale!” 

“You moved,” Eric shifted his hand, and it hit its target of Dele’s forehead this time. “You don’t seem feverish, your eyes are clear.”

“He’s fine, Eric,” Harry said in the hushed tones of someone who wanted to hurry up and go. “Honestly.”

“If you say so,” Eric stepped away, moving towards Harry. 

“I say so.”

“You heard the lad,” Harry threaded his arm through Eric’s, not due to any burning affection as much as pulling Eric away.

***

Pochettino as good as his word was free at six o’ clock.

Instead of sitting in his office, they had a late meal in the canteen. Pochettino arranged for the meals to be made and put to one side, and they sat at one of the tables near the window. The meal nothing too ambitious, just smoked salmon salad, accompanied by orange juice and a fruit pot. Pochettino had his _mate_ to one side, as they talked around the table. 

“Not my office, eh? It’s... too official,” Pochettino explained, in between sips of his _mate_

Dele nodded as he demolished his meal. Somewhere in between his driving and the randomness of the day, he hadn’t eaten and did so now. 

After his salad, Dele felt full, enough for him to pick over the fruits in the salad before him. 

“I spoke to Levy today,” Pochettino began, running his fingers down the silver tube of his drink. “He’s left the matter with me, to do with what I feel best. We can put out a press release and let the media go from there.”

“No interviews,” Dele snapped, and immediately felt sorry for drawing red lines, but he needed assurances. “I know I sound like a prat but-”

“Wait,” Pochettino held up his hand, palm facing the universal sign for stop. “I want to be sure that you know what you’re doing.”

Dele’s gaze dropped to the container of fruit. A medley of berries and papaya chunks fresh and cheerful even at this late hour. “I’ve no emotional connection to the surname. Like... you look at Eric and Harry and they love their surnames, the emotion for what it is, the links to their families. Your sons like your name, and that’s fine. I- I don't need that name to be the same as my family.”

English his first and only language, and Dele was failing at it, hard. He lifted his gaze, looked at his coach and saw- nothing. 

Pochettino had one of the better poker faces around when he set his mind to it. 

“Everyone calls me Dele,” he said at last. “Everyone who loves me-” his voice hitched and stumbled. Dele cleared his throat and forced himself to finish his sentence. “And who I love back, calls me Dele, or something along those lines. If I’m going to succeed or fail, it will be by my name and on my terms. I-I haven’t been an Alli in a long time.”

“No interviews.”

“Not even with Spurs TV,” Dele shook his head. “I don’t want to. I--- can’t.”

“No matter, we’ll do a club statement, and the press picks up on these things, no?”

“It’s that easy?” 

Pochettino raised his eyebrows, did a half pout as he leant back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. He eyed Dele for a long moment and finally spoke. 

“Nothing is easy, Dele. People will wonder, and do so very loudly. You’ll still have stories coming out in the media that you might not like. If you think this will stop them, you are foolish. This is football, eh? Like in life, you make the choices, and you stand by them, no? Win or lose. That’s never easy. But you might have to tooooo- make an effort. To give a nod to backstory as much as to move on. As in, would you still sign your name on a shirt with Alli on it if a supporter came up to you?”

“Yeah, of course, it’s not their fault. But I need to make the change now, before -” he worried his lower lip. “Before I go wherever football takes me. I can’t control where that road goes, but I can at least decide what I want to be called.”

A pause. Long enough to make Dele’s heart speed up, for him to scramble the edges of his brain for another answer, but unable to come up with a better one.

Dele opened his mouth and nothing came out. 

Pochettino saved him. Again. 

“All right, Dele. It’s done. I’ll pass it on and we’ll take it from there.”

All too soon, Pochettino pushed his chair away and made to leave. 

“Wait-” Dele held up his hand. “I-”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

Dele shook his head, wondering why he felt so odd. “I know I’m doing the right thing, but -”

“That’s enough, no?” Pochettino came around and stood alongside Dele. His solid bulk a comfort, as Pochettino rested his hand on Dele’s shoulder, gave it a short pulse of a squeeze, before he walked away.

***

Dele couldn’t wait to get to his car, his emotions rattling and thrumming like the last sprite in an empty cooler in the boot on a bumpy road. Everything hitting him all at once, him getting permission to drop his name from his club shirt, Pochettino saying yes and understanding.

Simultaneously, Dele felt light headed with freedom, bubbling with anticipation, only to be broadsided by something else he hadn’t expected to face at all. Something akin to- 

The lights coming up in the car park even though it was still light, and Dele couldn’t see his car through the blur. He pointed his fob in the direction of his car, only for it to drop from shaky fingers, pressed his fingers against his face, his chest tightening. 

_I - what have I done?_ Like casting a vote for a result you didn’t see coming, only to tumble out of reality into an alternate future that you had no weapons to face. 

_Dele_

Voices tiny and far away, and cold, everything so cold, skin tight and rigid with goosebumps like a mountain range. Legs giving way, his knees hit the asphalt, palms skinning against the tarmac and gravel. 

_I can’tIcan’tIcan’-_

_Dele_

“Dele.”

Dele opened his mouth to respond, only for nothing to come out. “Just breathe,” Eric coached, his arms showing the action. 

“I-”

“No words,” Eric’s palm now against his cheek. “Not yet, just-”

To Dele’s horror, he knew this feeling. At first, he thought the pressure behind his nose and between his eyes had the beginnings of a sinus headache. Only to realise that this was a thousand times worse. It fizzed everywhere, bubbling and surging into all parts of his insides, having nowhere else to go but out. 

He didn’t give into it much, but when it came- 

Frantic, he started to pull away, look for his fob. He could lock himself in his car and-

“I-I can’t s-stay.”

“You can, Delboy, there’s no rush.”

“I -” Dele placed his hands, sticky with blood and grit against his face, and started to bawl. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit, shit,” and those were Eric’s arms around him, his voice tight with surprise. “Harry-”

“Just-” Harry’s voice, over bitten, soft, floated along the edges. 

“Dele,” and that was Eric, pulling his hand away. “Aw, mate, your hands are banged up.”

Dele only cried harder, tucking his face into the space between Eric’s neck and shoulder. Emotions tore through him like a storm breaking on the shore. His feelings churning, his thoughts making no sense. 

“I dropped it,” he sobbed. 

“What, your fob?” Eric pressed it into Dele’s trembling fingers, and it tumbled to the ground again. “It’s okay,” Eric grabbed for it, pressed the button. Nearby he heard the solid _clunk_ of the car as its electronics disarmed itself, ready for him to enter without setting off the alarm. “It still works, see?”

“No,” Dele shook his head, despondent, “it’s not that.”

“Oh,” Eric’s arms tightened around him, stroking his shoulder blades and back with his open palm. 

Shivers made his body tremble, his muscles hurt, and over his hiccoughs, he could only hear the strained whispers of Harry and Eric over and around him. 

Disjointed sentences that had no meaning, ending with an exasperated, “Just - in my bag, will you?”

He heard Harry step away, felt something soft and warm around his shoulders. Heard the responding _snickt_ of his vehicle as it triggered its locking mechanism. 

“Give us your hand,” Eric crooned, damp wipe against his palm, “let’s clean this up.”

Dele’s hand flinched at the sting of the antiseptic wipe. 

“I’m sorry, it will go away soon.”

“N-no,” he sniffled, glad for it, because the discomfort brought him back to his senses, although puppy weak and unable to move. 

“You gave us a fright,” Eric continued speaking, keeping his voice low and calm, “we thought-” he felt Eric shaking his head, dismissing the rest of the sentence. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I d-d-dropped the Alli from my shirt,” Dele said, at last, knuckling a tear away, as he looked at Eric. His voice thick with tears and emotion. “I asked Poch and he said yes.”

“ _Dele_ ,” Eric said, Dele’s name on his tongue now carrying a _wealth_ of meaning. The warmth and solid weight of his arm around Dele’s shoulders, his cheek pressed against Dele’s hot and sticky tear stained one, his words a balm against the fevered swings of Dele’s feelings. “Of course he would. Why wouldn’t he?”

“I-” Dele started, his language ability deserting him now, as if he’d been learning it on Duolingo all this time, only to abandon him at the real test. Speaking slowly, he tried to explain his feelings. “I’m chuffed, but you wouldn’t believe it, would you? What with me like this.”

Eric’s palm against his cheek now, “It’s something you’ve been dealing with for a while,” he said, rubbing a damp towelette along Dele’s cheekbone. “In addition to everything else. It was bound to happen, I think.”

“Eric-” Dele sighed, emotions now spent and him empty, that sort of empty where you felt as if a gust of wind could lay you flat out on your feet. 

“It’s okay,” Eric’s forehead against his, close enough to smell the mints on his breath, for the bridge of their noses to bounce against each other. Dele’s fingers tightened in the blanket around them, his other hand in Eric’s hair as their faces came closer, and -

“Erm...” 

That wasn’t Eric, and that wasn’t him either. Only for Dele to realise what Eric meant by _we_. It took all of Dele’s strength to move, the smile he shot in Eric’s direction wistful, as he drew his arm away. 

“H,” Dele lifted his head, Harry some ways off, Eric’s bag on his shoulder. Harry waved, and it wasn’t him being uncomfortable or awkward, as much as...

They were seated together on the tarmac in a parking lot, Dele with a face of blood and grit, covered by a blanket smelling of...

“Your dogs’?”

“They get cold in the mornings,” Eric defended himself. To be fair to him, the blanket was clean and warm, it just had that faint unmistakeable scent of dog. 

“I-” Dele’s eyes didn’t leave Eric’s face, because Eric’s face reflected what Dele felt about them at this point in time, and wasn't that something. 

“I have to go and change, and get ready for tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Eric nodded, and he was back to being Eric, Tottenham Hotspur’s dog’s body, what with Victor Wanyama coming in, Eric mightn’t be hanging out in the midfield anymore. “You have to appear at training tomorrow.” He got to his feet, holding his hand out towards Dele, palm up. “No sick notes!”

Dele scrambled to his feet, waving away Eric’s offer of assistance. His wobblies were few and far between and didn’t last long. This one had been what the Americans would have called _a doozy_. 

This time, his fingers were steady around his car fob. He felt a bit stronger now and beckoned Harry over. “Thanks for waiting around,” he said, expecting another round of handshakes, and feeling half teary when Harry pulled him into a brief hug, his affection easy and uncomplicated. Harry was just... Harry. 

“Why are all you Harrys so _nice_ ,” Dele exclaimed as they broke away. “Like, all the Harrys I know are top blokes, do you lot just... have meetings where you decide what kind of guys you are?”

Harry laughed, his cheeks tinged with pink. “We’re not allowed to say, Winsky or myself. But we have great handshakes. Anyway...”

“Yeah,” Eric flashed Harry a grin as Harry moved towards Eric’s car. “I have to drop him home,” he explained to Dele. “His car is in the garage and is being dropped off by his this evening. So I promised him a lift.”

“Ahh,” Dele nodded, fidgeting with the fob in his hand. “I’ll let you go.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric said with a shrug. “We’re just glad that you’re okay. I- see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

“Night, Dele.”

"Wait-" Dele tugged at the blanket half hanging off his shoulders and threw it in Eric's direction. "Your blanket. I wouldn't want your dogs to be cold." 

Eric nodded, as he caught the bundled blanket in his left hand. “Night.”

Dele clicked his car open, got into the driver’s seat. Strapped himself in. After getting a fifty pound on the spot fine for his seat belt as a younger driver, he wasn’t going to do _that_ anytime soon. 

Wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. 

In the silence, Dele sat there. For the first time in a long while, his skin didn’t feel too tight. 

_Dele_ , he mouthed, as if saying his name for the first time. In a lot of ways, it might have been. 

He looked up, half expecting to see Eric’s vehicle in the parking lot, but not surprised when it wasn’t there. Harry had been in a hurry to go home, and, Dele pulled a face, remembering how he’d fallen into bits in the carpark a short time ago, with Eric and Harry to scoop him up and fuse him together. 

_“This is football”_ , Poch’s comment now an echo in his ears. It was Poch’s go to expression, be it results of wins, losses and refereeing mishaps. Dele now finding, the comment rang true in terms of emotion and his own story. 

Feeling lighter than he’d felt in a long time, Dele drove home. 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, context is for the weak.
> 
>   * Name taken from a Rumi quote:“Let yourself be drawn by the stronger pull of that which you truly love.” 
>   * At the start of the season Dele Alli dropped his surname from his shirt and went by his first name (Dele). The club [ issued a statement on his behalf](http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11675/10533658/dele-alli-reveals-personal-reason-for-tottenham-shirt-name-change). This fic is base speculation, so yeah leave me be
> 



End file.
